"Well, Paul, man, Paul—deary me, what a sad move! You're going back, back, back; once you could beat me five games to four. Now I can run away with you."
The game soon finished, amid a chuckle from the parson, a bantering word from Greta, and a loud, forced laugh from Paul.
Parson Christian lifted from a shelf a ponderous tome bound in leather and incased in green cloth.
"I must make my day's entry," he said, "and get off to bed. I was astir before day-break this morning."
Greta crept up behind the old man, and looked over his shoulder as he wrote:
"Nov. 21.—Retired to my lodging-room last night, and commended my all to God, and lay down, and fell asleep; but Peter minded the heifer that was near to calving; so he came and wakened me, and we went down and sealed her, and foddered her, and milked her. Spent all day plowing the low meadow, Peter delving potatoes. Called at the Flying Horse, and sat while I drank one pot of ale and no more, and paid for it. Received ten shillings from Lawyer Bonnithorne for funeral sermon, and one pound two from Bolton charity; also five shillings quarterage from Henry Walmsley, and seven from Robert Atkinson, and a penny to square accounts from Randal Alston, and so retired to my closet at peace with all the world. Blessed be God."
The parson returned to its shelf the ponderous diary "made to view his life and actions in," and called through the inner door for his bedroom candle. A morose voice answered "Coming," and presently came.
"Thank you, Peter; and how's the meeting-house, and who preaches there next Sunday, Peter?"
Peter grumbled out:
"I don't know as it's not yourself. I passed them my word as you'd exhort 'em a' Sunday afternoon."